Pieces
by pretentious-emo-kid
Summary: A one shot to apologise for my despicable posting etiquette. This is a lo-ong one, which just wouldn’t have worked as a multichap, so my advice is grab a cup of tea and a choccy biccy. RH, sort of, er, random, for want of a better word. Leetle angsty.


A/N: A one shot to apologise for my despicable posting etiquette. :) This is a _lo-ong_ one, which just wouldn't have worked as a multichap, so my advice is grab a cup of tea and a choccy biccy.

Different moments that make up Ruth and Harry's story; past present, and future, (so some are borrowed from the show, and some are of my own imagining (meaning a basic knowledge of the Spooks universe in kinda crucial)). They don't follow any chronological (or even logical!) order, just to make it even more confusing…

- - -

"Come on, Ruth. We both know that something like this won't stop you. Mace has underestimated you. Again."

Ruth kept her eyes on her hands which were busy bunching and loosening the fabric of her hospital gown.

"Perhaps," she said after a moment, in a soft, low voice, "You're _over_estimating me."

Immediately, there fell a thick silence, which neither hastened to break – one not entirely sure of his ability to do so, the other apparently no longer possessing the inclination.

He flopped into the chair beside her bed, desperately wracking his brains for something to say. He knew what he'd _like _to do. He'd _like _to let his head fall into his hands, and verbalise the thought which had been keeping him up for three solid months.

How did we get like this?

But he couldn't. He had to be strong, let her know that he was there the second she needed him. That she might have lost interest, but he was still waiting with open arms, ready to hold her.

Of course, there was that other thing that he wanted to do which he couldn't. He couldn't argue with her, and tell her she was being a damned idiot – and something of a coward to boot. He couldn't fight for her.

So, he decided to do neither. He wasn't going to give up, and he wasn't going to beg. Instead, he was going to give it one last shot; the dying man's final squeeze of the trigger.

"I missed you, Ruth. Probably a lot more than you give me credit for. I did stupid sentimental things of the sort I normally would have laughed at: I started out letters and ended up writing them to you, I forgot myself and called for you on the grid, I even talked to your cats about you. I didn't forget you, not for a moment. Jesus Christ, sometimes you were the only reason I used to pick myself up out messes, Ruth – I'd think about the sacrifice you had made and I'd want to justify it." He took a breath, and lifted her chin up so that she was forced to look at him. "I thought, when you came back, that –" He stopped suddenly, unsure of what to say next. "I don't know," he sighed eventually. He turned to leave.

"Ask me," she commanded suddenly, dropping the hem of her gown.

He turned back to look at her. "Ask you what?"

"I don't know," she shrugged despondently, "Whatever it is that I need to be asked. I can't seem to work it out."

"You always seemed so strong," he said after a pause. "You were fine when we said goodbye on the docks."

She pushed her hair back from her face. "I know," she said emphatically. "I just –" She broke off. "That wasn't a question, Harry."

He looked at her long and hard, before finally asking. "Where are you, Ruth?"

Her hair slipped back over her eyes as she regarded him; her look as piercing and unforgiving as his own had been. "I think…" she replied eventually, "I'm somewhere safe. Somewhere where you're…not." She gave a desperate little laugh. "Only, well, if I don't _have_…if I'm not _with _you, I can't…I can't _lose _you again."

Her voice grew a little limp as she finished, her hands once more seeking something to distract themselves with. This time they fell on her blanket.

"But don't you see?" he said hurriedly, desperate to win her over while her defences were down, "You're not going to 'lose me' again."

"Really?" she asked incredulously.

"No."

"No, but _really_, Harry," she countered again, her voice rising, "Because there's no way you can be sure, is there? I mean look what happened today – I could have died. _You_ could have died."

"Ruth, I'm not going to leave –"

"Don't," she interrupted dully. "Because I need you to promise, and you can't do that without lying to me."

He thought about replying, but she was already looking away, counting the stitches that hemmed her bedclothes.

- - -

"I might not be you boss any more, Ruth, but –"

He said something next, she was sure of it, but she could not for the life of her have gone so far as to have guessed what. Something to do with being cheeky, probably. If she was honest, she didn't really care. At that moment, it was as though a switch had been flicked somewhere in her.

Because it was true. For one evening, and one evening only, Harry Pearce was not her boss. They were just two people on a bus. Two people not bound by protocol or propriety. Two people who could even –

No. Don't go there, Ruth.

She restarted the conversation to fill the loaded silence, but her mind kept ticking over the possibilities his words had suggested.

"I've got something for you," she said eventually, daring to lace her words with the merest ghost of a hint of a flirtation.

She wound her arm over the back of the seat, and waited.

He didn't seem to require a second invitation; she felt as his hand covered hers, and quickly relieved it of the memory stick. Risking a glance around, she was assured that no one had seen. Perfect.

Except now, now that he had safely cocooned the small lump of metal and plastic in his palm, they were faced with something of a problem. They were still holding hands.

She had passed him what he needed; technically there was no reason why he shouldn't remove his hand and make another idle comment about the weather. But, he wasn't her boss tonight, was he? So neither was there, _technically_, any reason why he shouldn't leave his hand exactly where it was. Which, to her delight, was what he chose to do.

Even by the most innocent of standards, it was a simple gesture; their eyes remained firmly fixed on the space in front of them, their hands resting together only a second longer than the pass required, but she found it delicious nonetheless; even more so when he went as far as to gently squeeze her hand in his own in a way that could not exactly be explained away.

But then of course, he broke the spell.

"Keep an eye on Adam for me, he –"

The bubble burst, and she switched off immediately.

She had been an idiot to believe what his words had implied – he would _never _stop being her boss. She couldn't be annoyed at him for it; his consideration for his team was one of the things she loved best about him, but at the same time, the moment of exotic liberty had fled as quickly as it had come.

She knew that he had realised his mistake as his lips brushed a 'thank you' into her hair, but it was little consolation. It should have electrified her, but as it was, she struggled to summon up so much as a dull spark. They were superior and protégé again, and it was once more forbidden – a concept which did nothing to excite her, merely stir up a vague anxiety.

She heard him leave, and turned back to her book with a sigh.

- - -

Harry tried to ignore The Presence behind him by focussing on listening to the dial tone. He didn't have to wait long.

"_Yep?" _

Who, thought Harry, but Adam Bloody Carter could answer the phone like that?

"The anti-terror bill has been defeated in the commons, Adam. Half the government's MPs joined the opposition."

He could have truthfully claimed about ninety-nine percent of his concentration to be directed at what he was saying. Regarding the other one percent, however, he would have been lying if he had said it was doing anything but sighing at the bundle of well-meaning anxiety still hovering over his shoulder.

"_Well, that's to be expected – it was full of holes,"_ replied Adam's voice from down the line.

"The home secretary is demanding inter-agency cooperation to get to the bottom of the recent attacks." He hoped someone would call her away in a minute. "We're to host the meetings here, at Thames house."

"_Put padlocks on all the computers, and hide the stationery."_

Harry smiled, and opened his mouth to reply. Unfortunately, The Presence chose this moment to make itself heard.

"Adam, it's Ruth."

He held his hand up, with a look that said, _'I was getting there!'_

"Ruth wouldn't allow me to make this call unless I added that she thinks it's time you found someone permanent for Wes." His voice sounded for all the world like that of an oft-berated husband.

"_I haven't got time to go–"_ started Adam.

Harry turned to grin triumphantly at The Presence, but it was already interrupting, determined that this victory should be its own. "No, no, no. I'll do it, Adam. Leave it with me." It brushed an errant lock of hair from its face as it bent over. The Presence's breath was now tickling his cheek. "Well as long as you trust me to get the right person."

"_I trust you."_

The Presence's self-satisfaction was awe inspiring to see. "Get some rest, Adam," it added, striking perfectly that tone that was exclusive to itself – earnest and absentminded all at once.

"_Thanks." _He hung up.

The Presence turned to Harry with an accusing look on its face.

"I was going to say it!" he insisted.

"Of course you were," replied The Presence dryly.

- - -

Chaos – a cacophony of sounds, begging to be acknowledged. She could hear helicopter blades, and the sea, and the creak of wooden planks underfoot. And shouting. So much shouting.

A pier, she thought.

"Where am I?" she yelled into the night, as the hood was pulled from her head. "What's going on?"

Five torch beams instantly turned towards her, and she felt the skin on her wrists protest as she quickly brought her cuffed hands up to cover her eyes.

"What is your name?" asked a loud voice.

She tried to find a face to talk to, but the torches were blinding her; she could distinguish nothing from the shadows.

"Kitty Lewis," she answered eventually. "My name is Kitty Lewis."

The voice was not impressed. "What is your name?" came the harsh bark once more.

"FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

This was at once a new voice, and an old. Loud, furious, and commanding, she had not realised that its owner was present, but as she heard it, it felt like strong arms caressing her.

"Take those torches out of her face, and STEP AWAY!"

A sixth light appeared, but this one was held under the carrier's face, illuminating it so that she could see him without being hurt.

The black-clad men stepped back a little sheepishly, lowering their torch beams.

"I'm sorry, sir," said one, "But we had to confirm her identity."

"Well," replied the owner of the new voice, surrendering his torch so that he could gently remove her cuffs, "You have it on my good authority that this is indeed Ruth Evershed. Now, if you would be so kind…"

He wrapped an arm around her tightly, and waited for the men to move out of his way.

She was too dazed to do anything but follow him; losing herself in the task of putting one foot in front of the other. Eventually, they reached his car, and he held the door open, supporting her as she climbed in.

He started to speak. "Ruth, I –"

Hurriedly, she placed a finger on his lips.

"Please, Harry. I don't care about the specifics right now. Just tell me. Can I –?"

"You're back Ruth." He smiled tenderly, and placed a hand on her cheek. "You're back to stay."

She didn't say anything straight away, just let her cold fingers creep upwards to intertwine with the warm, gloved ones stroking her cheekbone. He waited patiently, watching her dazed eyes dart back and forth as she desperately tried to comprehend what she had just heard.

Eventually, she looked at him.

"Hold me," she begged.

She should have realised she was simply giving him the permission he already sought. Winding her fingers into the fabric of his clothes, she felt his arms wrap intimately around her lower back, binding her tighter than ropes, securing her as she so desperately needed.

"It's alright, Ruth," she heard him whisper as she wept. "I'm not letting you go again."

- - -

As a little girl, her mother had impressed it upon her that there were simply things one didn't do in company. Now, as she sat in the car, next to him, she mused that testing how much excess fabric from your tights that you could wrap around your finger was probably one of those things. The problem was, if she stopped awkwardly picking at her clothes, it would mean she'd have to look at him.

She considered the question he had posed to her earlier.

"_Where's your sense of romance?"_

Though he might not have realised it at the time, he had somewhat hit upon the snag. It wasn't that she was averse to romance – quite the opposite in fact. It was just that she couldn't quite shed the feeling that they were on show. She could only guess at the number of attempts Zaf would have made at bugging the car if he had known about the date. And of course, the resulting video would have been bounced around the grid a hundred times before tomorrow lunchtime. She shuddered in horror. Thank goodness no one knew.

Actually, now that she thought about it, Jo had given her a _very _strange smile earlier.

Oh dear God.

She suddenly noticed that she was tugging so violently at her tights that she was attracting his attention. Hurriedly, she smiled at him, releasing the fabric from her fingertips. It should have been the end of the matter, so she couldn't work out why he was still staring at her legs. She followed his sightline, and saw that in her anxiety, she had managed to hitch her skirt right up over one of her thighs, a certain spot on her tights puckered and distorted where she had tugged at it.

She looked at the faint grin haunting his lips, and realised that it was going to be a race; almost at the speed of light, her hand flew down to pull the offending garment back into position, but his was faster. In a swift fluid moment, he brought his outspread palm down onto her thigh, smoothing her tights, and pinching the hem of her skirt between thumb and forefinger, bringing it back down over her knees.

She looked at him for a long, long while, her hand still frozen a little above his in its runner-up position. She couldn't decide whether she should slap him or kiss him. He still had that infuriating smirk on his face, and she knew she should probably opt for the former, but somehow, she couldn't bring herself to be angry at him.

In the end, she simply sat back in her seat, and stared out of the window.

"My mum always used to tell me off for fidgeting," she noted neutrally.

He didn't remove his hand from where it rested on her knee.

She didn't ask him too, either.

- - -

"Goodbye, Harry."

Mace grinned smugly. He had Harry in a corner, and he knew it. The furious MI5 head could follow him down the fire escape of course, but then he'd have to leave his newly rediscovered intelligence analyst to bleed to death.

Harry looked at Mace, his eyes boring into him. "I will find you again," he promised in a low voice.

"You were too slow to stop me this time, Harry." the other man replied with an amused grin.

"True," acknowledged Harry. "But now that you've reminded me that cockroaches can survive without their heads, I won't be nearly so complacent again."

And with that, he turned his attention back to Ruth, ignoring the sound of Mace's calm escape.

"You'll be alright, Ruth," he said gently, stroking her hand, and bringing her head to rest on his lap. "I promise."

"You should go after Mace," she replied, her face contorting with pain as she spoke.

"Oliver's finished," he insisted, "He just hasn't realised it yet."

Ruth gave a weak laugh as she surveyed the chaos around them. "Ah yes," she said, "A building half collapsed with two MI5 officers inside it. One of whom appears to be bleeding to death. It certainly looks like the work of a 'finished' man." She laughed once more, but in a reflex movement, her hand tightened around his, and a look of terror flooded her eyes.

"The ambulance will be here soon." He hoped he looked as calm as he sounded. In truth, the dazed, misty look in her eyes was frightening him more than he could ever before have imagined.

He held her until the paramedics arrived.

- - -

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled loudly. The room seemed to be getting hotter around him, and his collar felt uncomfortably tight. His hand flew up to pull his tie loose, and he wrestled with it for a few moments, before angrily pulling it off altogether, and throwing it across the room with an angry shout.

Sometimes, being a leader was tough.

He didn't realise that he was being watched through the walls of his office; that one of his team had looked up from her computer screen, and was staring intently at him, a slight frown wrinkling her brow.

He didn't realise until she appeared at the door, a rumpled printout clutched tightly in her hand.

She was like a cool breeze as she entered the office, serene and calm, and everything else that he was not, right at that moment. Immediately the room seemed to grow bigger again.

"Those telephone records you asked for, from GCHQ," she said, extending her hand towards him.

"Thanks," he replied quietly, taking the sheet from her, but not standing up.

She looked worriedly at him for a few moments, before turning on her heel. He thought she'd be heading back out to the grid again, but instead she crossed over to the blinds, and shut them.

"Ruth," he started gently, "Ros and Lucas will think that we're –"

She cut him off. "Ros and Lucas can think what they like," she announced. "And anyway, they're too busy to notice."

She didn't say any more, only stayed stood in the middle of the room, waiting for him.

After a few minutes simply drinking in the sight of her, he stood up from his desk, and walked slowly to where she stood. He took her soft hands in his, laying his hot, aching forehead against her cool one. And he breathed.

"You asked me once," she said, watching as his eyelids closed, "Where I was."

His eyelashes fluttered a little under the force of her sigh.

"Well," she continued, "I'm telling you that, right at this moment, I'm with you. We all are, Harry – whatever choices you have to make. But especially me."

Eyes still closed, his fingertips found their way by instinct to bejewelled ring on her left hand, and he knew she was telling the truth.

- - -

Ben sighed as he flipped through a file box.

"You guys," he pointed out, "Have the most chaotic filing system of any place I've ever worked."

Lucas up from what he was reading. "He's right, you know. I still have no idea where anything is."

Jo smiled as she placed a coffee on both men's desks. "Our filing system isn't chaotic – it's meticulously organised, in fact. Thing is, it's organised to work with a totally scatterbrained personality."

Ben looked around, his eyebrows raised. "Jo. Unless you're trying to tell me that underneath that scary-as hell-exterior, Ros is actually…"

Jo snorted into her own coffee. "Not Ros, no. Ruth – our old analyst – she was amazing. She could find _anything_, any file, any report like _that_. Lucky she was never sick, actually; if she'd been off for a day, the country would probably have fallen apart."

She smiled a little wistfully to herself, but Ben looked thoughtful. "Ruth? Ruth Evershed? They mentioned her in training – wasn't she mixed up in that Cotterdam thing?"

Lucas felt a swift breeze past behind him, and turned to see Harry's back disappearing through his office door. He left Jo and Ben to talk amongst themselves, and followed his boss.

"Can I help you, Lucas?" asked Harry cordially. He was already positioned behind his desk.

Lucas slipped his hands uncomfortably into his pockets. "You were listening to our conversation out there."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes." The reply was completely expressionless, and worried Lucas. He wasn't sure whether he was being a good friend, or naively venturing onto very thin ice.

"Harry…" He decided to bite the bullet. "Before I left, talking about your personal life was considered unprofessional amongst your officers. Now it's taboo to the point of dangerous."

Harry's jaw tightened.

Lucas ploughed on. "From what I gather, the reason for that is Ruth Evershed. What happened?"

"Lucas, I don't –"

"– I know it's none of my business. I know that there's absolutely no reason that you should tell me. Do you want to do it anyway?"

His cocksure manner brought the flash of a smile to Harry's lips. "You haven't lost it, have you, Lucas?"

"Not even a little," was the prompt reply.

Harry laced his fingers tightly, and placed his hands on the desk. "Ruth was not 'mixed up' in Cotterdam."

Lucas wracked his brains for what he had heard of the details of the scandal. "A fire, wasn't it? Used to cover up the removal of key terror suspects. Oliver Mace – Christ, he was a slimy bastard, wasn't he? His doing."

Harry nodded stiffly. "Correct on all fronts." He took a breath. "Ruth wasn't involved – she abhorred the idea of torture. It was a frame up."

Lucas frowned. "For an intelligence analyst, she must have been good at making enemies," he noted.

"They wanted to get to me." Harry corrected him in a low voice, the words stinging as he spoke them and wilting dully once they left his mouth.

"So you _were _close."

It was an almost cruel understatement to which Harry could think of no reply.

Lucas filled the void in the conversation. "So what happened to R–?"

"She, er," Harry cut him off quickly, not wanting to hear Ruth's name spoken by someone else. "The team had enough warning to make sure she slipped under the radar. Adam and Zafar saw to it between them."

Lucas nodded at the reminder that the small, patchwork team was far from being as close-knit as it had once been. "Harry, I –"

There was nothing he could say.

Because the job would always leave them hollow and lonely and broken if they stayed in it long enough. Both men were living proof of that.

- - -

Harry looked down at the cup of tea in his hands. It was an olive branch – or at least he thought so. If he was completely honest, he had no idea what he had done, or even if he had indeed done anything at all, but he couldn't stand another minute of cold silence.

So, taking a breath, he approached her desk.

"Ruth?"

Her eyes crept up reluctantly, her hand still covering the phone receiver.

"Can I help you, Harry?" Her tone wasn't rude, but it was brisk, and somewhat abrasive.

"Thought you'd like some tea." He placed the cup buy her mouse mat.

"Thanks."

Almost thirty seconds in, and she still wasn't making eye contact. He tried a different approach.

"It's getting late, Ruth. Lucas had allowed a veritable mountain of paperwork to build up in his in tray, and even he left hours ago." He adopted a light, jokey tone, "And it isn't as though you need to impress anyone. You were falsely accused of murder and conspiracy – your job's safe for life."

A distracted, "Mmm," was the only reply. To his disappointment, she wasn't rising to the bait, and was refusing to be drawn into a conversation.

He tried once more.

"Ruth?"

"Look, Harry, do you want anything? Because they're going to take me off hold any second."

He looked at his shoes, then back up at her face, seeing that her eyes still pointed firmly at something on her computer monitor.

"Well," he started quietly, "I suppose all I wanted was to bring you the –"

"Oh, hello." He could hear the indistinguishable words of the stranger on the other end of the line. "Yes, I'm calling for Roger Theswood."

Her attention switched back to the phone, and the end of his sentence died in his throat.

" – tea."

- - -

Wherever she was, people had always fallen just a little bit in love with her. They couldn't help it – her earnest enthusiasm, her open friendliness, her quiet, yet awe-inspiring intelligence. It was refreshing to be in the presence of one of those people of the kind that keep the world turning. And now there was a sadness to her, also; a loss which, though absorbed and accepted, never quite left her eyes. It made her a puzzle.

And that was a dangerous, exotic, and altogether _attractive_ combination.

She didn't lose her head when she realised it; she kept her dry sense of humour about her from the offset. But it was nice to flirt with romance. It was a pleasant change to watch her muddled bashfulness become an object of intense scrutiny; the supposed key to her past, as opposed to a simple quirk of personality. She would let them question her, fuss over her, shoot dark, lust-filled looks in her direction.

The poor things, bless their hearts, didn't even realise that they were more in love with whatever her story might be than they were with her.

That wasn't the only problem, she soon came to realise. She was also just too good at the job that was no longer hers. She could lie to them so easily. 'Yes, I agree with your opinions on the book we're discussing.' 'Yes, I'm a red wine drinker.' 'No. There's nowhere else I'd rather be this evening.'

She was an actress, a paper doll, a closed file. And everywhere she went, she broke hearts.

Of course, it couldn't be that way forever. Eventually one came along who actually _was _in love with her. Her. Brilliant but bonkers her. This one was a poet, and he said she was his muse; he loved art, and he would take her around galleries at weekends; he adored the ground that she walked on, and he didn't care a jot about her past. He wanted to share her future.

She looked down at the open ring box in his hand, then at his face.

And she lied.

She was already married, she told him. Children, she told him. Just escaped to the continent for a while to clear her head, she told him. It had been her husband's idea; after the birth of little Henry – number three.

She held him to her, stroking his hair, murmuring apologies and sweet nothings. She told him that she loved him, but that it just wasn't meant to be. She felt a little bit sick, and very, _very _proud.

She knew He would be proud of her too.

- - -

"Harry, please don't say anything. Just leave it as something that was never said. Something _wonderful_…that was never said."

In an intoxicating show of confidence, she pulled him to her, kissing him hard. After all, it didn't matter now, did it?

She wasn't sure why she had just said what she had; the words simply seemed to come to her. As she kissed him now though, she thought that she had an idea as to the reason. She would kiss more men in her lifetime – possibly many more, perhaps only a few. But whatever the case, she wanted to make sure that this one was different. Because _this _kiss was with him.

However many men might stand before her, tears glistening in their eyes, professing their undying love, they would never be him. They would never be the one who _didn't_ say it. Who didn't have to.

She realised that he was kissing her back; pouring the words she wouldn't let him say into the action. She could sense the still-fresh hurt and anger in the movements of his lips. If she had needed assurance, that would have been enough. As it was, it felt nice to be the one in control, to have made every decision leading up to this point. It felt nice to be the one to have her feet firmly on the ground.

Eventually, she broke away.

"Let me go, Harry," she commanded quietly, letting him find strength in her eyes, her touch.

She kissed him once more, briefly, almost chastely, then released him and stepped onto the boat.

And then she let her thoughts veer almost immediately to her next step – she had a whole new life to plan now. He would have to heal his own broken heart.

- - -

"Are you in love with Ruth, Harry?" A bold question, quite out of the blue.

"Do the words 'skating', 'thin', and 'ice' mean anything to you?" A warning, spoken with raised eyebrows, and deep voice.

"I'm disabled – I'm allowed a special licence." A reminder of pain and vulnerability and courage.

"Well, Ruth has many wonderful qualities." An understatement.

Ruth had _many_ wonderful qualities.

She was brave, principled, and honest. She was good at her job to the point of brilliance; brilliant to the point of terrifying.

She could take all the oxygen from a room, simply by gracing it with her presence. When a worried look stole over her features, he knew that something very, _very _bad was going to happen.

She could face him in the worst of his furies, and simply cock an eyebrow. She could persuade him to see reason where few others would even attempt it. She could mellow him when he needed to hear that he was being a stupid bugger.

She glued the team together when big personalities and flared tempers threatened to ignite into a crisis. She listened when they needed to talk, talked when they needed not to be alone. She saved them all so many times in her own quiet way.

She was calm. She was analytical. She was logical. She was thorough. She was a natural actress, a beautiful liar, and a born spook.

Ruth had many wonderful qualities. Was he in love with her?

Yes. He bloody well was.

- - -

Ruth felt the cat in her lap stretch himself out, mewling lazily.

"It's alright for you, isn't it?" she sighed, irritated. "The most calamitous hour of your existence was when I broke the tin opener, and you had to have dry food."

The cat yawned as if he had heard, and turned himself over slightly so that he was now lying belly up. Absentmindedly, Ruth dipped a finger into the mug before her, and let the cat lick at the tea she collected on it. After all, it wasn't his fault.

"It did seem important to him, didn't it, that I got the note? It felt like a drop. Didn't it?" She was distracted by the cat's paw as he batted her fingers away.

"I know." She smiled. "Too sweet. It's supposed to be good for shock apparently."

She wiped the last of the tea off her finger onto her skirt.

"But the man at the station…" She switched back to her original subject, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she replayed the morning's events in her mind. "It felt like a drop. I'm sure it did."

She looked down at the cat, and rolled her eyes at herself. "Why am I asking you?" She laughed softly, and added, "After all, you weren't even there."

Pushing the cat gently off her lap, Ruth stood up and emptied the now cold tea down the sink.

She wished she could have found the words to make Harry understand. Part of her was angry that he had treated her almost like a child, but she appreciated that he was only considering her welfare. Still, this was the beginning of something big; she knew it. Whatever it was worth, she knew that her life had taken a turn that morning, and she was going to find out where the path she had been forced onto was going to lead her.

So she got ready for work for the second time that morning, and tried to ignore the feeling of impending doom in the pit of her stomach. After all, if the worst came to the worst, she could always go to Harry, couldn't she? She'd always have him.

- - -

He was a grown man, and a cynical one at that. He no longer woke up each day, sleepily wondering who he might meet, what might happen, what he might learn. Only how he would get through it. He awoke only because his inner autopilot told him to.

That was not to say that he was also an unhappy man – far from it. It was only that in his world of backstabbing rivals and ever-imminent threats, the selection of a flattering shirt, say, had been overshadowed in importance by well-polished shoes and a grim poker face.

So it was that he was dressed not to endear, that morning, but to intimidate.

Not really a surprise then when she promptly dropped nearly every file she had been holding.

It was their first meeting. He had not bothered with the formalities of an interview; opting instead for a short telephone conversation, and asking Malcolm to cast an electrical eye over all the relevant areas of her life. After all, she had come to him with recommendations. Plural. As soon as he had discretely put it about that he was looking for an analyst to bring some harmony to the pig sty that was the grid, her name had climbed up the grapevine from many different directions.

Ruth Evershed.

So, barring a brief glance over the photograph in her file, he had not yet seen her for himself.

He realised almost as soon as the first of the paperwork slipped from her grasp that the photograph in question had not been even near to doing her credit. 'Pretty woman' he'd thought. 'Pretty woman' nothing. On that stark black and white picture, her expression had been neutral, empty. Here, as she silently berated herself for her own clumsiness, she smiled nervously. And suddenly, it was as though there was once more a reason to look forward to each day as he realised.

When she smiled, it was like sunshine.


End file.
